


blue sky

by rosegardeninwinter



Series: sketched lightly: assorted short stories [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 11:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15795237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: “maybe one day” she says and curls her fingers in the wide knit of his sweater “one day ask me again”[an exploration of the "five, ten, fifteen years" it took Katniss to agree to children]





	blue sky

once when he was a toddler  
and chairs were big and heavy and significant  
he had dragged one out in front of his house  
stood on it  
tried to touch the sky 

and once when he was eleven  
and he had a crush on the prettiest girl in school  
he had two brothers who’d laughed at him and said it was just like him to be a poet about everything  
but he was convinced that kissing the prettiest girl in school would be like getting to touch the sky at last

and years and slips of paper later he gets his wish  
he gets to kiss the prettiest girl in school  
and it feels like the world is spinning  
but that might be the blood poisoning

they’re nineteen when, between knocking her hunting boots clean against the doorframe and placing a basket of blackberries down on the counter, she tells him she’s decided they’re married 

but half an hour later as the cool wind of summer dusk is coming through the bedroom window she sits up and bites her fingernail and tells him she doesn’t want to have children

and he tries to ignore the sensation of knocking his childhood chair over and sprawling in the dirt with the breath knocked out of him when he lightly asks her why

“I can’t be a mother” she says and she tugs the quilt up to her burned knees “it’s too dangerous”

“not anymore” he says “not now”

she smiles sadly “I meant us” she says “we’re too dangerous”

and because it was only a month ago that he forgot his medicine and almost shoved her down a flight of stairs  
and because it was just days ago when she woke up at dawn and stared at the baseboard until sunset  
he doesn’t argue with her

he gets his paints out  
but ends up just dragging his hands through the red  
throwing globs at the canvas  
it helps  
maybe

winter comes and they talk about buying milk and new pillows  
and about fixing the leak in the guest bathroom sink  
but they don’t talk about babies

in spring they go to the train to pick up parcels of medicine and fresh oranges  
and she catches him watching a pair of siblings chase each other around their hampered mother’s shoes  
he doesn’t know that his eyes are longing and guilty  
he doesn’t know how it makes her lungs ache

it’s raining hard on the roof that evening  
she waits for the thunder to be very loud before she says it

“maybe one day” she says and curls her fingers in the wide knit of his sweater “one day ask me again”

the first time it’s a year later and they’re hanging laundry and he poses the question as though he’s commenting on the weather

she pins up a sock  
“ask me next year?” she says around a bit lip  


he pins up the twin sock  
“of course”

the next time they’re cleaning up a late breakfast on the porch and there’re some chickadees arguing over a scrap of sourdough and he barely says it  
but she does hear him 

“ask me next year”  
“okay”

next year a nasty bout of seasonal allergies is giving them insomnia and she’s taking a too hot bath at four in the morning and he’s keeping her company on the tile floor with a strong cup of mint tea and a cough  
and she sets her cheek against the rim of the tub and gives him the usual reply

years four and five and six he puts the question in a teasing tone  
they’re busy as bees reopening the bakery  
and buying sugar and taking inventory are more pertinent than babies 

he forgets to ask year seven

year eight they’re chopping wood for a bonfire  
and she stares at the reflection of the gray autumn sky in the axe blade for a long moment before she says no

year nine she pauses even longer 

year ten is the first time they fight about it  
and she shouts over the kitchen table that if he wants babies he should go and find some rosy merchant girl to give him a bushelful  
(not some scrawny burnt thing like her)  
(she doesn’t say that aloud)  
(but they both hear it)  
and he grabs her shoulders so tightly it hurts and tells her she’s the only thing he’s ever wanted and hasn’t he proven that to her over and over again? 

year eleven is  
bad  
he has episodes  
she stays in bed about half the days of every month

and that winter  
when they’re recovering  
she’s making soup on the stovetop  
and he’s standing behind her and drawing circles on her hips with his thumbs  
he says “maybe you were right”  
“about?”  
“maybe we are too dangerous”  
and she brings his hand to her lips  
“no” she says but then she heaves a sigh “I don’t know" 

it’s almost like year twelve is trying to make up for year eleven  
because it’s the best year they’ve had so far  
it goes by in a haze of cards from Annie and visits from Delly and phone calls from Mrs. Everdeen  
and one night after they’ve had a bit too much of Haymitch’s birthday wine and they’re picking at the leftover cake on their kitchen table and moonlight is coming in through the lace curtains she takes a deep breath and says "soon okay?”  
“soon what?”  
she scoops some icing up on her fork and stares at it as she answers  
“soon I might be okay with having a baby”

but year thirteen brings doubt  
and when he asks her again  
she starts to cry  
“I hated my mother for so long - what if our babies hate me?”  
“they won’t”  
“what if I hate them?”  
“Katniss” he admonishes  
“but what if - ? what if I - ? what if I ruin them?”  
“you could never” he says  
“how do you know?"  
he goes and gets the plant book  
the memory book  
turns to a page with faded pink flowers and a lovingly done sketch  
"Prim” Katniss murmurs  
“that’s how I know” he says “Prim”

year fourteen they’re dozing on the lakeshore after a swim  
“sing something?” he says and she sings a nursery rhyme  
and his heart skips a beat  
“next year?” he says  
“maybe so” she says “maybe so”

year fifteen he’s painting in his studio  
(the “sort of studio” Katniss calls it because  
it’s really a shed Thom and some of the others helped them renovate)  
(they keep gardening tools in here too)  
(shovels and stencils)  
when she taps sharply on the doorframe  
she’s in her hunting garb  
bow and quiver slung over her back  
mud on her boots  
a dead turkey dangling from her game bag  
and she’s got a righteous scowl on her face that makes him want to apologize in advance of whatever she’s about to say  
“you win Mellark” she says “now get upstairs”  
“what?”  
“before I change my mind”  
“about what?”  
“babies”  
she shoulders the turkey and marches away across the yard  
and he doesn’t think he’s ever loved her more  
but he’s laughing so hard he can barely make it back to the house

she is soft when she is asleep  
his wife  
the prettiest girl in school  
her damp hair tangled  
and her arms thrown languidly above her head and her lips parted  
she seems much younger  
almost as if she’d never been in the Games  
he runs a gentle hand down her dusky patchwork skin  
from her breastbone to the cradle of her pelvis

(where maybe)  
(well probably not yet but)  
(maybe)  
(and they have time)

forget the sky


End file.
